Page 87 of Soulmates
He circles the ring, circles David, who doesn’t move. Only his eyes track his uncle. Brendan is bleeding from more than one wound, and if David is no longer as jaunty, he’s no less poised.
David gathers himself. This is what we talked about. Give Brendan some room, and then take it back. David launches himself, and Brendan runs away, which is its own kind of defeat.
The ring is only forty or so yards in diameter, and in a burst of speed, David is on his uncle. They clash, and this time, David comes away with fresh blood streaming from one ear.
The blood spurs Brendan on, and he becomes the aggressor. He attacks, hitting David in a blur of claws and teeth. The onslaught is designed to demoralize an opponent, to give them no room for escape. David yields one step, a second, and my heart seizes in my chest, refusing to beat.
His uncle has David pinned against the wall, except he doesn’t. David slips to one side as if he’s made of smoke. He ducks and thrusts, his own chest heaving with effort. Before Brendan can respond, David plows into his uncle’s ribs headfirst.
Brendan goes down, and in the scramble, David lands on him, his jaws locking on the back of Brendan’s neck. Brendan thrashes, lurching and flailing to shake David off.
David does not yield.
Breathing hard, muscles straining, David pins his uncle to the dirt. His jaws tighten, and Brendan’s motions grow weaker. In a matter of seconds, it’s clear who the winner will be.
A sharp bark draws David’s attention. Randolph’s wolf stands in front of them. The three have some unspoken communication, and David loosens his hold.
Brendan faces his brother, his alpha. He struggles to stand, and when he fails, he lifts his muzzle, baring his neck. In a single strike, Randolph Collins tears out his brother’s throat.
The crowd falls silent.
Brendan Collins’s dying body shifts, and it’s as a man he bleeds out in the dirt. I’ve got my arms around Trajan, holding him still, although I don’t remember when I caught hold of him or what he meant to do. Behind us, Sheena begins to clap, slow and steady. Others in the crowd join in, and it is to the sound of applause that the American Alpha shifts to his human form.
Randolph is built like some kind of earth spirit come to life, perfectly proportioned, utterly male. He raises a hand and the clapping stills. “My son,” he says, gesturing to David, “has had his revenge, and so have I. The Collins Pack is mine, and I am your Alpha. Anyone”—he looks around at the stands—“any one of you who would raise a hand against what is mine will meet the same fate.”
The first wolf to bow is Brendan Collins’s second. Most of the crowd bows as well, and even David lowers his head, but only briefly.
“We have work to do,” Randolph continues, “and amends to make, but for now, let us bury our dead with honor.”
David leaves the ring, heading for us. I’m no longer restraining Trajan. Now we’re hanging on to each other, though neither of us would admit it. David’s progress is interrupted by a group of women, all of them wolves. They’re sporting biker leathers and death-metal tats, and the leader drops to her knees in front of David. He nudges her, not rejecting her fealty outright, but more comfortable as her equal. She grins at him and rises. “You little bitch,” she says, and her friends laugh.
He goes to each of them and nuzzles them, spending long enough that I begin to suspect our pack will soon be growing. I don’t know what the three of us have done, binding ourselves with spirit and blood, but these ties won’t be easily broken.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Trajan…
RANDOLPH COLLINS CHOSE the restaurant, a steakhouse in the Financial District with dark-blue walls and caramel-leather booths. The recessed spotlights and candles on every table give just enough illumination to show off the food.
And candlelight flickering through a snifter of tequila is kind of pretty.
David sits between me and Connor. We finally had time to retrieve his belongings from Sheena’s storage place, and he’s dressed in a mouthwatering combination of black leather and bare skin. Across the table, Randolph is preoccupied with ordering the correct wine for dinner, while Abby and David’s mother watch David with sad eyes.
Setting the wine steward free, Randolph folds his hands. “Abby tells me you’ve withdrawn from the U this quarter.” His tone is deliberately affable, and his attention is squarely on David.
“Seriously Dad, you aren’t even going to wait till we get our appetizers?” There’s an edge to David’s grin. “Hang on, my guys”—he points at me and then at Connor—“let me show you how it goes. Yes, I withdrew, no I don’t have plans to return, and no, I don’t know what I’m going to do next, but if I never again put on a suit, that’ll be just fine. Did I cover everything?”
The question is addressed to his father. Connor and I exchange glances. He’s having as much trouble keeping a straight face as I am.That’s our guy.
The waiter arrives with a platter of oysters and a second one with grilled shrimp. Both are liberally garnished with shredded leafy vegetables. The wolves ignore the cabbage or scallions or whatever and make short work of the shellfish. Connor tries some of the greens decorating the shrimp platter and declares they are excellent. None of the rest of us answers his implied challenge.
Slurping three or four of the oysters gives David even more mojo. He raises his cocktail glass—a gin martini just like his father’s—and loudly clears his throat. “I’d like to drink a toast to fresh starts and new beginnings.”
Everyone raises their glasses and David reaches for my hand under the table. Our fingers intertwine, and he continues, “Because that’s what this is. Dad’s going back to DC, Abby and Mom are heading back to Seattle, and I’m staying here.”
Another glance from Connor tells me he’s as relieved as I am. Not that I really thought David would take off right away, but his dad has a point. Dude is young, not yet twenty-three. I don’t want to lose him, but I also don’t want to stunt his growth.
Glasses clink, and we all drink. Abby has a soda because she’s under twenty-one, and Mom is drinking tea because to do otherwise would upset her aging hippie persona. Randolph downs a healthy swallow of his martini and sets the glass down. “I hear what you’re saying, son,” he says, clearly determined to yield in order to win.
